


And Then There Were None

by JoansGlove



Series: Within These Walls [4]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Vague hint of FreakyTits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: Someone's playing tricks on Vera. Someone who likes to play with yellow pencils...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This tale starts the day before Kaz pushes Sonia off the roof
> 
> With big thanks to Duchess x

> Ten little Soldier boys went out to dine;  
One choked his little self and then there were nine.  
Nine little Soldier boys sat up very late;  
One overslept himself and then there were eight.  
Eight little Soldier boys travelling in Devon;  
One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.  
Seven little Soldier boys chopping up sticks;  
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.  
Six little Soldier boys playing with a hive;  
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.  
Five little Soldier boys going in for law;  
One got into Chancery and then there were four.  
Four little Soldier boys going out to sea;  
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.  
Three little Soldier boys walking in the zoo;  
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.  
Two little Soldier boys playing with a gun;  
One shot the other and then there was One.  
One little Soldier boy left all alone;  
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

**Wednesday**

Cautiously, she approaches her desk. This is a poor joke by anybody’s standards and it pains her to think that somebody would think to play it on her. Catching her Iips between her teeth, Vera inhales sharply and snorts in annoyed disbelief – half a dozen yellow pencils lay neatly ordered to the right of her laptop. As she draws closer, she sees that the pens in her desk tidy had been tampered with too: thinned out to leave just one black, one blue, and one red.

A grim expression settles on her face and she squares away her bag and coat before pulling up the access records. After all the fuckery around Ferguson’s escape from Medical and Smith’s fatal presence in no-mans land, the Admin rights to the back-up files have been restricted to Governor’s rank and above, and since Jake guessed her password she’s changed it to something he’ll never crack in a million years so she knows that at least one of the records should be correct. She frowns as the data blinks up on the screen and she double-checks the dates, her index finger trailing down the columns as she searches for evidence of the prank. Finding nothing amiss she checks the CCTV recordings, continuing to frown as, unlike the day Ferguson cut out Gambaro’s tongue, the timestamp scrolls seamlessly on and the outer office remains empty. Finally, she checks the rota and, reaching for the phone, she dials the staff room.

“Will? It’s Vera. Has Miles clocked off yet?” She nods and looks at her watch. “Well, send her to me before she does. Yeah, no, no problem. Thanks.”

She buzzes through to her secretary “Andrew? I want a copy of the latest stationery stocktake, the one we took immediately after the fire, and the first stationery order we placed after the fire; and then I want you to personally check the prison to see if any of these were overlooked.” She holds up one of the offending pencils as he swivels in his seat to see what she means. “They’re Micador,” she tells him just to be sure. The dapper young man nods through the window and turns back to his screen.

The email pops up and she opens the inventories and the order forms searching for ‘pencils’ and frowns once more as she scans to the bottom of each list. A moment later she’s scrolling down through the online COS catalogue, her frown carving deep lines into her forehead as she fails to find what she’s looking for. A search of the Micador site and Vera's starting to feel uneasy. Either she’s losing it or these pencils don’t exist anymore. She couldn’t buy one even if she wanted to!

She swallows a sick feeling and jumps as Linda knocks on her door.

“You wanted to see me, Guv’na?”

“Yes, Miss Miles. Shut the door.”

Linda hovers in front of Vera’s desk. No stranger to a carpeting, she stands to attention, eyes flickering anxiously over Vera's stern expression as she wonders what she’d done to warrant this summons.

“You were the Duty Officer last night, yes?”

“That’s right, Guv’na.”

“Quiet night was it? You didn’t need to use my office for anything?”

“Quiet as the grave, Guv’na, there was no reason to come in here.” She pauses as Vera purses her lips and stares disbelievingly at her. “Guv’na, is something wrong?”

“Not if you can explain who put these here,” she says nodding down at the splash of yellow. Vera’s well aware that if anything tricky’s happening in this prison then Linda Miles is the woman to know about it. However, getting her to volunteer the information is a different matter. “They appeared sometime last night. During _your_ shift.”

Linda almost recoils as she realises what she’s looking at and she stares at Vera in wide-eyed horror. “They’re Ferguson's…” she breathes and crosses her arms as if to protect herself.

“They are _not _Ferguson's!” spits Vera. “But they are someone’s, and I intend to find out whose.” Linda stares at her like a stunned mullet, and Vera motions for her to sit. Linda glances nervously at the pencils and supresses a shiver; they’re Ferguson's alright – she’d bet a week’s wages. “So, Miss Miles, where do you think these came from? And please don’t tell me the supply cupboard, because they didn’t.” Vera's looking at her like she’s already made up her mind that she’s the guilty party.

She swallows drily. “I don’t know, Guv’na. Maybe there were a few in the back of a drawer or something…?”

“Everything in the old Admin block was destroyed in the fire,” replies Vera tightly. “And our office supplier doesn’t sell these. In fact, I’ve checked on the Micador website and they don’t even make them anymore!” She realises that her voice is becoming shrill and she takes a few deep breaths as Miles works out what she’s saying.

“So, someone’s really had to want to mess with you to go to all the trouble of tracking some down and bringing them in here.”

“Mm, exactly. More so when you consider that these,” she nods grimly down at the little yellow raft, “got in here without leaving a trace on the system… No entry log. No CCTV.”

“Fuck, Vera!” she exclaims, forgetting herself for a moment. “That’s hardcore!”

“Not exactly what I’d call it, but yes. Whoever it was has gone to significant lengths to play a really childish joke.” She knows that Linda’s lied before to protect herself, and also that she’s easily bribed, but her surprise seems genuine this time and Vera's inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. There’s really not much more that she can do at this point. “I want you to be discreet, Miss Miles. I’m not about to give whoever it was the satisfaction of a reaction but as you were the Senior Officer when it happened, I’m holding you responsible. I want to know who set this up.” She knows that Linda can’t hold her own water, but making her accountable should stop her from turning this into the newest piece of prison gossip.

Vera looks at her expectantly and Linda’s heart sinks. Why not ask her to find Lord Lucan while she’s at it! “Of course, Guv’na,” she replies automatically and stands as she’s dismissed. 

Alone in her office, Vera's thoughts turn to Ferguson; this is just the sort of thing she’d do. Her stomach tightens as the memory of Gambaro’s tongue in_ that _box forces its way to the fore, and she takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she makes the effort to push the image away and focus on the matter in hand. Joan would revel in the kudos of infiltrating Wentworth to reassert her dominance, but surely no-one in their right mind would deal with Ferguson now, she thinks – the risk is too great! But, as she’d learned to her cost, all bets were off where Ferguson was concerned.

It could be Murphy. An uncomfortable flush of shame causes Vera to tug at her collar as she thinks of how she framed Murphy to save her own skin; it stands to reason that she’d want to fuck her over if she could. She’d also aided and abetted Ferguson in Medical Isolation, and was relatively well-liked amongst the staff – but well enough for one of them to do something like this for her? And who amongst them has the skills to cover their tracks like this?

Of course, it _was_ possible she thought, but then Murphy had always struck her as the sort of woman who’d want to be there when the trick was played, and this was too… too cerebral for someone like her unless, of course, it _was_ Ferguson pulling her strings.

Either way, the annoying fact was that there was no immediate evidence to support either outlandish theory. There has be a rational explanation though, she tells herself; it has to be someone from here in the prison.

So, if Ferguson and Murphy are out of the picture then, logically, the only person she can think of who’d profit by doing this to her is Jake. He got into the files once, who’s to say he hasn’t managed it again? Maybe he thinks that she helped Ferguson to escape and now he’s secretly trying to frighten her as part of a plan to win her back. He says that he loves her, that he doesn’t want to hurt her anymore, yet he’s still sniffing around Radcliffe so how can she ever believe him again? How can she trust him not to be involved? She bites down on the painful anger and humiliation that always comes when she thinks about his lies, and her fingers stray to her lower belly.

This pregnancy couldn’t have come at a worse time for her. When she was younger she longed for a baby that she could love and that would love her back, but now that she’s going to have one... She doesn’t know if she can go through with it. She can’t see a way of excluding _him_ from their lives and she knows that an abortion is the most sensible route for her, but she’s missed the cut-off date for the misoprostol and the prospect of having to go and do it in a clinic is so _final_ that she turns away from the thought, sick to her stomach with indecision.

But Jake’s been on leave; and even if he hadn’t been, how would he know to do this? she wonders; even if someone had told him about the pencils, how would he know the exact type to buy and the exact spot to line them up on? They are millimetre perfect. Maybe he _is_ still on Ferguson's payroll…

Despite her efforts to solve this unsettling conundrum with logic, she’s beginning to court jagged hysterics as the disturbing fact that there’s absolutely nothing to prove that anyone actually put those fucking things on her desk brings her up short every time. Maybe it was Ferguson's ghost – it’s as good an explanation as any. Vera begins to giggle at the absurdity of this notion. In fact, it’s so outlandish that tears begin to leak from her eyes and she dissolves into helpless (and slightly manic) laughter that leaves her hiccoughing and light headed.

*****

The pencils taunt her from the waste paper bin. She’d swept them off her desk, determined not to waste any more time on the matter but she finds that as the morning advances her eyes are drawn time and again to the bin. She knows that it’s foolish but the mere presence of those pencils in her office is getting to her, and she scoops them out, grimacing with distaste as she drops them in an envelope and heads to medical. She feels silly sneaking around her own prison, almost guilty, as if she should have a sign around her neck that reads ‘Coward’. The treatment bays are thankfully empty and she swipes in, hurriedly depositing the envelope and its unwanted contents in the medical waste bin. Even if she doesn’t find out who brought them in, the knowledge that they will soon be incinerated comforts her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thursday**

She’s pulling another late night. The Board expects a copy of her report on Stevens’ murder first thing tomorrow. They want an explanation to why Wentworth is rapidly becoming the worst performing prison in the state. What can she tell them that they don’t already know? Blocks at maximum capacity, staffing at a bare minimum, tired officers and bored inmates. Add to that the ever-present river of drugs, and of course the place is going to turn to rat shit! Her report makes for bleak reading. The only upside is that Spike Baxter is no longer facing a murder rap.

Vera pushes her chair back and lets out a desultory sigh. Being Governor’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes it feels as if all she does is work and sleep (and even then, not well), and still she makes no headway. She wonders how Joan managed it all and still found the time to have a hobby, because right now she barely has time to buy groceries or do her laundry. She’s more isolated now than when her mother was alive and she wonders if she can’t push more responsibility onto Will; he has a good relationship with Proctor and the women – maybe too good with Proctor she reflects. Her stomach growls and Vera decides that now’s as good a time as any to grab a coffee and raid the biscuit tin.

The upper floor is deserted and it actually feels quite creepy as she walks the well-worn trail to the staff room. Linda’s there and she looks surprised as Vera nods a tired greeting and heads for the kettle. Unsurprisingly, she’s checking the form in the racing pages. “No rest for the wicked, eh?” she quips as Vera rummages in the cupboard for a clean mug.

Rolling her eyes, Vera tuts irritably and turns to look at her. “Miss Miles, if my officers were as diligent in their duties as they are in taking their tea breaks, then I wouldn’t have to be here now, detailing why yet another prisoner has died. And I’m still waiting for an update on that pencil incident,” she adds venomously.

Linda remembers a time when Vera wouldn’t say boo to a goose but that all changed when she turned herself into Ferguson’s Mini Me, and although she’s softened a bit since she took over, she’s still a fucking hard-ass when she wants to be. Even though she wasn’t on shift when Proctor scrubbed Stevens, Linda feels personally attacked. “But, Guv’na…” she starts to protest.

“No buts, Miss Miles,” interrupts Vera harshly. “Is this what you were doing Tuesday night, too?”

“I’m entitled to my break, Guv’na…” Anger bubbles in Vera’s chest but she holds it back; she’s too tired, too disappointed to say what she needs to without saying a whole lot more that she shouldn’t.

The kettle clicks off and she turns her back on Linda, grateful for the interruption. When was the last time anyone gave me a break? she thinks bitterly, searching for the least encrusted teaspoon. It’s been one shitstorm after another. All she wants to do is go home and crawl into bed; let someone else deal with this crap for a while. Curdled milk plops and dribbles into the tar-like coffee and, as she stares rancorously at the grainy mess, she feels the ache and burn of tears behind her heavy lids. “Yeah, great! That’s all I fucking need.” she mutters tightly and abandons her mug on the counter.

Her fit of pique and the brisk walk back to her office have energised her more than a coffee could have and Vera's already composing her conclusion and recommendations as she enters the ante-room. She pushes her office door open and feels the involuntary ‘uh’ of astonishment burst from her throat before she fully registers what she’s seeing. Five yellow pencils sit neatly to the right of her laptop. She’s too angry to be scared. She’s been gone less than ten minutes – is someone monitoring her movements? “Fuckers!” she hisses and glances at the cluster of pens that she restored yesterday. They too have been tampered with – once more thinned out to leave just one black, one blue, and one red. Her jaw aches and she realises that she’s clenching her teeth again, and she fights to rein in her emotions as she hurriedly logs into the system files.

They’re pristine, glossy and smooth, and they jar her vision as she searches the CCTV and access records for evidence of the perpetrator. What she finds makes her waver between incredulity and despondency. No perimeter door activations, just her and Linda on the upper level, her office empty. She slumps weakly in her chair. That can’t be right.

She knows that she has no hope of finishing the report tonight, not feeling like this. Her receding anger has left her jittery and paranoid, and she feels the sudden and desperate need to get out of this place.

*****

Now that she’s in her car she feels better. She’s heading towards Bridget’s, but she knows in her heart that there’s nothing Bridget can ask or suggest that she hasn’t already thought of herself. She spies a fire pit store on the corner by the traffic lights and Vera’s mind ticks as an idea takes shape.

She pulls in at a 7-11, parking well away from the glaringly bright illuminated sign, and she’s halfway across the car park when she realises that she’s still in uniform; Vera swears under her breath as she marches back to the car and pops the boot. What she’s about to do is technically a crime, and she switches her jacket for the tatty hoody she keeps in there, pulling off her tie and flattening her collar beneath the thick terry cotton before striding back to the store. She earns a suspicious stare from the old Indian lady behind the register as she buys lighter fluid and matches, and she wishes that she’d picked up a tray of snags as well. At least she has enough cash on her she thinks with relief as she hands over an anonymous twenty. 

Except for the wildlife, the park is deserted but still she scans the grounds and pulls her hood up as she makes her way to the cluster of picnic tables. She avoids the path and the automatic lights, preferring the safety of the dark, and she sets her new purchases on the concrete table top, glancing around the empty space as she fishes in her bag. The envelope lies crumpled in the bottom and she pulls it out. Tearing off one end she pours the pencils into her palm and her fist curls around them, and then she’s scraping the diamond sharp points across the polished concrete, feeling them crumble as she creates a monochromatic rainbow that will only appear as the sun comes up.

The small pyre doesn’t take long to build as she carefully balances the pencils against the screwed-up envelope until they look like the ribs of a tee-pee. A good dousing in the pungent lighter fluid and it goes up with a muffled whumpf, and she’s filled with a sense of satisfaction as the yellow paint sizzles and blackens and the flames eat into the dry wood. She watches mesmerised as the paper quickly turns to sculptural black ash and the pencils burn on their own; tiny gouts of fire spurting from the spindly struts like dancing golden buds as the glue catches alight and the wood begins to split and twist. Did Joan stare with the same fascination as she watched _her_ fire take hold? she muses liquidly in the dancing light.

There’s a commotion at the far end of the park and Vera looks round sharply. It’s a group of teenagers and she can tell from their shouts that they’ve seen the flames. The last thing she needs tonight is a bunch of self-righteous, civic-minded adolescents telling her off for being a firebug, and she grabs her arsonist’s tools and hurries back to the car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday**

Four yellow pencils lie in formation on her desk. They gleam malignantly at her and it takes all of Vera’s resolve not to turn around and bolt from her office. Her slim fingers brush the tendons of her inner wrist and she wishes that she still wore an affirmation band – she needs something to divert her thoughts from this sick joke. Taking a deep breath, she lets it out through her nose and centres herself: “I can face anything that confronts me,” she says out loud. “I have full confidence in myself. The only person who can defeat me is myself.” Reciting these mantras, she stows her gear and covers the pencils with the uppermost file from her In tray, hiding their slick, venomous menace. All of the pens that have been sifted from her desk tidy will be in her drawer again – yes, there they are, ordered by type and colour like last time – and she grabs them (plus a few more for good measure) and rams them in the holder with more defiance than she really feels.

Stoically, she opens the access logs and the CCTV drive. After the other two incidents she doesn’t hold out much hope of finding any fresh evidence, and her cynicism is proven right. Whoever’s doing this is not only a modern-day Houdini but they know exactly how to push her buttons as well. But she’ll be buggered if she’ll go to pieces; she can’t afford to.

It’s not really something she wants to do, but she knows that she’ll have to tell Will. She’s got a rare weekend free but that means that if this pencil bullshit keeps up then he’s bound to find some tomorrow. It’s only fair to let him know what he can expect – after all, he has his own history with Ferguson.

“Sierra two to Sierra four.”

“Sierra four here.”

“Will? I’d like to see you in my office as soon as you can, please.”

“Of course, Governor. I’ll be ten minutes.”

Vera lifts the file from off her desk. “Recognise these?” she asks. It’s as if he’s been sucker punched in the guts, and Will feels sick as he drops heavily into a chair and stares at the pencils. He can’t marshal his words and he looks blankly at her. “Will, I think someone’s trying to scare me,” says Vera. “It started with six on Wednesday morning. Last night there were five waiting for me before I went home and today there’s four.” Will feels his bowels loosen and he swallows hard. They’re a sign from Ferguson. He knows they are… The bitch is haunting him. A question forms on his slack face and Vera holds up her hand to stall him. “Before you say it, I don’t believe this is Ferguson's doing. If she was going to get at me then she’d have done it already wouldn’t she? She may be mad but she’s not going to hang around for weeks in Melbourne just to make me suffer now.”

“No? She took fifteen years to get at me, Vera. Remember?”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t on the run then, was she?”

He’s so tired he doesn’t know which way is up. The only thing he knows for sure is that even dead, Ferguson won’t leave him alone. “Well, then, maybe she set it up before she escaped,” he offers lamely.

Will’s distracted; she can see him trying not to look at the disturbing addition to her desk and she wonders if he’s on drugs again. His eyes are puffy and too bright – glassy almost – but then, he’s been working every spare shift that he can, no wonder he looks strung out. She waits until he looks at her again and says, “Even if Ferguson had arranged it, Will, why would whoever she got to do it still bother? I mean, what’s the point now that she’s gone?”

“I don’t know,” he replies tiredly.

“You haven’t, er, heard anything have you?”

Vera’s face is etched with tension and Will shakes his head. “No, not a thing.” He knows she means from Kaz. The veiled insinuation that Proctor is his snout is coloured with anxiety, and he knows that Vera doubts herself.

“I, I could cope if I knew what this is all about but I don’t! And it’s as if they’ve been magicked onto my desk, Will. According to our own security records, nobody did it!” She wants him to tell her that there has to be a rational explanation, that he’ll help her, but he looks as stunned as Linda did - worse in fact. “Will, are you OK?” she asks with sudden concern as he draws in a shuddering breath and presses his lips together. He can’t meet her eye and his gaze is drawn once again to the pencils. He looks as if he’s about to start crying. “Will,” she says, louder, and he looks up, startled.

“Sorry, Vera. Bad memories…” he lies. “Know what I mean?” She gives him a tight yet supportive smile and he smiles feebly back at her. “You say this is the third day?”

She nods. “It’s like some sort of countdown.”

“Yeah, but to what?” he asks weakly.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Will. But I don’t think it’s going to stop. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“So, if it’s not Ferguson… Who’d want to do this, Vera? Channing?”

“I doubt it. It wasn’t me that got him sacked, and it’s not as if he’s got any friends on the staff since Fletch left.” She waits, hoping that Will has another suggestion but he just stares mutely at her. He’s really not himself and she wishes that she could send him home to clear his head but the staffing margin won’t bear it. At last she says, “I think perhaps it might be Jake?” Will frowns. “He wants me to give him a second chance,” she explains waspishly.

“I know,” he admits and Vera's lips part in surprise. “But why like this?”

Vera's face tightens and she draws herself up stiffly in her seat. “Because if I’m scared enough then I’ll run back into his big, strong arms and we’ll live happily ever after,” she says derisively. “I think he thinks that I’ll forget what he’s done and it’ll be like nothing’s happened. Well he can fuck off if he thinks that’s ever going to happen.”

Will’s brow furrows. He can understand how Vera's arrived at this conclusion and, to be honest, he hopes it is Jake, yet his gut tells him otherwise. “But he wasn’t here Tuesday, or last night. I don’t see how…”

“Not officially, no.”

“You think he snuck into the prison? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know, Will,” she replies wearily. “The swipe card logs show everyone was where they were meant to be, no-one accessed my office. The CCTV didn’t pick up anyone at the outer gates, or anywhere near here,” she gestures around her office, “On either night. And OK, I know that you can dodge some of the cameras, Will – but not all of them... He must have had help.”

He wipes his face with his hand, and in that brief moment of darkness he sees Ferguson sneering at him. “I can’t believe it was him, Vera.”

“Who else is sneaky enough?” she asks fiercely. “You know what he’s like!”

An idea strikes him. “Have you checked for manual access?” Vera looks questioningly at him. “If he used keys to unlock the gates then…”

“…Then it wouldn’t show on the card reader. Of course!” But even as she’s clicking into the sub-menu her excitement fades. “One problem,” she observes flatly and Will’s eyebrows rise. “Only you, me and the Duty Officer have a key to this office, and Miles was as surprised as I was to see…” She pauses and gives the pencils a withering look. “…_Them_ on Wednesday, and she was with me last night when it happened again.”

“So, then, there’s a copy floating about... But that still doesn’t prove it’s him doing it. I really think you're stretching it, Vera.”

“I don’t know why _you’re_ defending him,” she bristles. “There’s no-one else it can be, is there?” Nausea sweeps over Will. He wants to tell her that it’s Ferguson. He needs to unburden himself but he can’t tell Vera that he’s a murderer and that he’s being haunted by his victim. He did it for all of them but he can’t expose himself – he just can’t!

*****

Those yellow bastards are mocking her and she glares at them with distaste over the rim of her mug. Rising from her chair, she snatches them up and hefts them a couple of times in her palm as she considers what to do with them.

Her skin whitens with the effort as, with a crack like snapping finger bones, she breaks each pencil in half and drops the ends into an envelope. And as she rubs at the red grooves that linger on the pads of her thumbs, she stares grimly up at the ceiling, up at the air-con vent, and she almost slaps her forehead at her own stupidity – there’s more than one way to move about this prison.

Opening the browser, she types in _covert surveillance_. If she can’t identify the tasteless prankster through conventional methods then she’ll have to change her tactics.

Andrew looks up, surprised to see her in her coat as she pauses to lock her door. “Miss Bennett…?” he queries.

“I’m going out for an hour. If the Police turn up again tell them that they can either wait or make an appointment like everybody else.”

“Yes, Governor.”

Now that she has a plan, Vera's feeling better and she has a little bounce in her step as she heads to the main doors, she even finds the energy to smile at Bakula as he lumbers past her. He reeks of cigarettes and her stomach gives a warning lurch. God, she can’t wait for this morning sickness to be over – one way or another… Saliva floods her mouth and she’s holding her breath as she rushes urgently into the (thankfully) empty Ladies and launches herself into the nearest cubicle. She has time to think _thank god this didn’t happen in Reception_ before her stomach ejects the weak black tea in a burning surge. Vera's belly cramps again and again, and she gasps in pain, dry heaving as tears matt her eyelashes. Her positive feelings have evaporated and she feels like crying for real – oh, will this never end?

Finally, her retching subsides and after a while, Vera emerges from the cubicle and crosses to the sinks on shaky legs, anxious to rinse to sourness from her mouth. It’s all she tastes lately and she starting to worry that people can smell it on her breath; and as she pats her coat pockets for chewing gum she feels the bulky envelope crinkle and shift beneath her hand. Her eyes fall to the empty waste bin and then they travel across the scuffed lino to the cubicles, and she’s ripping open the pencils as she takes the few short steps back into the stall. A chemically sweet odour rises up when she lifts the pastel blue plastic lid and Vera holds her breath as her throat contracts (she already feels like she’s been turned inside out and she doesn’t need a repeat performance), and she swiftly decants the crippled yellow soldiers into the blood-smeared tray. She watches them disappear into the foul interior of the sanitary bin and a grim smile flickers across her lips as she thinks about how she’s going to solve this riddle once and for all. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday**

It’s early, too early still for the sun to burn off the dew, and the diamond pebbled cars of the night shift twinkle in its slanting rays. He doesn’t want to be here but he can’t be alone; time on his hands means that his mind wanders... He needs a distraction from his thoughts.

He hardly slept again last night. When he did, he saw Ferguson. The downers Jake's given him barely made a difference but now, even though the uppers are rushing in his blood again, it’s as if he’s dragging a weight that just gets heavier and heavier. With each leaden step from the car to the Admin block Will feels like he’s wading through quicksand, and his legs have no strength in to resist the pull. Shadows stutter at the edge of his vision and he feels, quite literally, shattered.

Will’s always considered himself one of the good guys. He’s only ever wanted to help, that’s why he went into social work in the first place. But it crushed him; the hours, the workload, the frustrating rules – in the end it felt like he was banging his head against a brick wall most of the time... So, when he saw an opportunity to sidestep into the Drug and Alcohol Treatment Service he jumped ship. Many of the faces he saw were depressingly familiar, but what was more depressing were the clients that rolled straight out of prison and into the waiting room already rattling from a habit acquired (or re-established) inside. And that’s how he eventually found himself in the Prison Service, initially working with the first timers and remand prisoners and, after he got together with Meg and they moved to Melbourne, the women here in Wentworth. He’s been a good officer; he _is_ a good officer. He tries to treat the women with respect where he can because, even though they may take advantage, he cares about them. Sometimes he cares too much…

He can’t even summon the energy to grunt at Mitch as he signs in, and Will drags himself through the metal detector and down the hallway to the Report Writing Room, praying that his legs won’t give out before he gets there.

Proctor is a perfect example of how respect earns respect he reflects, and mixed emotions pull at the corners of his mouth as he thinks about her. It had been important to him that Kaz realised that it wasn’t a need for dominance, but compassion that drove him to do this job. It had also been important that she saw that she could trust him. Maybe it’s because they are kindred spirits of sorts. He wants to save her from the volcanic rage that simmers deep down, the rage that torments her as she tries to balance respect and control as Top Dog; to rescue her from the sudden and explosive temper that put Stevens in a body bag. But he knows that it’s more than that; for all her bluster and swagger, she has a doe-like fragility that brings out his protective side.

He killed Ferguson so that Kaz wouldn’t have to, so that she wouldn’t have to betray her principles and make the ultimate sacrifice.

No, that’s not strictly true and he knows it. He can tell himself that he did it for Kaz, for Vera and the Women, that he did it in the name of all the people that Ferguson damaged over the years; but he didn’t. Will grimaces guiltily because no matter what he tells himself to assuage his conscience, he knows that he did it because Ferguson was a disease and she_ deserved _to die. 

He feels like a total fucking coward.

He could have abandoned her in the bush and told the cops where she was but the woman was like a fucken cockroach – she’d have evaded them somehow and, without a shadow of a doubt, she’d have ruined more lives as she restored herself; but more importantly, she would never be brought to justice for her crimes. So what was he meant to have done? Bludgeon her as she climbed out of the crate? Dump the box in the river, hoping it sank and was washed out to sea? Either would have been a better death than the one he gave her.

Shame breathes hotly on his neck making him sweat, and it’s a relief to step into the air-conditioned Report Room.

Had he really thought that getting rid of the monster would stop the nightmare? All he’s done is swap one hell for another. He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s disgusted with himself but there’s no salve for his soul. He’s numb. And in his weakness, his desperation to feel human again he’s crossed the line and done the unthinkable – he’s fucked a prisoner. His cock twitches as he thinks about Marie Winter but the corners of his mouth dip again; he wishes that it had been Kaz. Just something else to add to my guilty conscience, he thinks self-pityingly.

A steel rod of pain hits him behind the eyes and he staggers as the room pulses, lurching into an abandoned chair as his legs turn to water.

Letters dance on the pages like ants at a hoedown and it takes some time for the words to settle, but eventually he manages to make sense of Di Hagan’s duty report. It shows a quiet night; the key to the Governor’s office never leaving Di’s pocket. He knows that doesn’t mean much considering Linda reported exactly the same on the first morning, so he feels better when he swipes into the outer office and inspects Vera's door. It’s still there - the scrap of paper he’d folded into the door frame last night is still peeking out from where he left it. 

Three pencils greet Will. He seems to shrink as he sags in terror.

No-one came in here last night so how the fuck are there pencils on the desk? Despite Vera's warning he’s struggling to hold it together and he flees for the safety of the staff room as if the hounds of hell are snapping at his heels. There’s already people in there and he knows that he can’t go in – he doesn’t trust himself not to lose it. He’s shaking so badly he feels like he’s going to pass out and it seems like forever until he makes it to the sanctuary of the boiler room, and he slides down the wall, ribs heaving as he tries to stop his heart from thudding out of his chest. Sweat prickles heavy across his body and Will wipes it from his face with both hands, but the sweat feels like blood and he scrubs his palms on his trousers until they sting with the friction.

He should have let Ferguson burn in the fire but he couldn’t. He’d wanted to see her answer to her crimes in court; it was the least that her victims deserved.

Even if he had left her to die it would have made no difference. She blamed him for a death then, and she blames him for one now. The ‘when’ of her death is irrelevant.

Her screams are always there - sometimes deafening, sometimes just outside of hearing - but they’re always there. He can’t escape them. They horrify him. They haunt him. No wonder he can’t sleep.

The speed flutters hard and fast in his throat and it sets up a frightening cascade through his muscles that has him trembling uncontrollably. He can’t make it stop. He can’t move. Will’s face contorts in fear as he gasps for air through gritted teeth; his lungs feel stripped, his chest raw, each quivering breath he gulps down filled with razor blades. It’s gotta be the drugs, he tells himself.

_It’s the Freak!_ _It’s the Freak!_ A voice sings hysterically in his head. _The Freak is coming to get you! The Freak is coming to get you! The Freak is coming! The Freak is coming! The Freak is coming to get you! Ha!_

The whole room is throbbing, the pipes and consoles rippling as they vibrate in the barbed wire air, and he blinks hard as a stealthy darkness crowds his vision – the jagged shadows flickering and strobing as they wreathe into a familiar shape. He smells dry earth and a chill shiver of dread rips through him, stinging like an electric shock as every hair on his body stands on end; and he’s ice cold, numb to everything but the figure of Governor Joan Ferguson standing over him. Terror flays him to the bone and her cruel, calculating smile is the last thing he sees before he blacks out. 

The insistent hum grows louder and he follows the sound, blindly rising up through the inky void until he surfaces with a gasp into the fluorescent brightness of the plant room, and Will swallows a sob of relief to find himself alone. His watch shows 08:37. He’s been in here for over an hour and, although his heart beats less jaggedly now, Will is far from better; the after-image of Ferguson’s face hangs behind his gritty eyes, infecting his struggling thoughts with every red-rimmed blink. And he’s thirsty; too thirsty even to swallow without his throat gluing itself shut – but he’s dying for a piss.

It’s a miracle that he makes it to the Men’s room without being seen because what he sees in the mirror can’t be explained away as plain old tiredness. He shambles towards the urinals like a Spice zombie and clings shakily to the wall as he fumbles urgently for his shrunken dick, barely clearing his fly before he lets loose a stinking yellow rope of piss that causes him to wrinkle his nose and jerk his head back as the foetid reek rises up into his face.

Water. He needs water. It tastes of chlorine but he sucks greedily from the tap until his stomach protests in pain, and he pulls back resting his forearms on the sink edge as he watches the glassy swirl disappear down the plughole and fights the urge to hurl. Slowly, the feeling subsides and he lifts his head and stares in horror. The man looking back from the mirror is haggard, broken; bloodshot eyes stare out wildly from dark, puffy sockets, yesterday’s beard straggles across his sagging cheeks, dried spittle collects gummily at the corners of his mouth – if he met himself on the street he’d chuck him $20 and tell himself to get a good meal. He’s a fucking mess and he needs to sort himself out.

*****

Back in Vera's office, Will moves warily around the desk, fixing the pencils with a suspicious stare, as if they might suddenly rear up at him. They stare coolly back, daring him to deal with their insolence. He snaps a photo of them and sends it to Vera.

She’s expecting his message but it still makes her shudder. She feels bad for Will but she’s glad that it wasn’t her that found them this time. At least it means that now she’ll find out who this arsehole is. ‘Anything in the logs?’, she messages.

‘No’.

‘CCTV?’.

‘No’.

Not surprising but it hardly matters now. The prospect of catching the fucker that’s been tormenting her this week has given her a new perspective on things. Let them do their damnedest, she thinks, they won’t be laughing on Monday. She wonders what will happen if she tells Will to leave the pencils there – will one have been subtracted when he gets in tomorrow, or will there be a further two added to them? Whoever it is seems to have a plentiful supply. ‘Get rid of them,’ she texts back.

He’s only too glad to. He wants to wipe them from the face of the earth. Will shivers as a vicious little voice chimes in _‘just like you did Ferguson’_. Finding a deserted stairwell, they clatter on the shadowy floor and Will grinds them beneath his heel until there’s nothing but splinters and glittering grey dust. He enjoys the feeling of them coming apart but it’s short lived and he finds that there’s no real relief in their destruction. He turns away, heavy steps taking him back to the office. He’s still looking at the film of graphite on his shoes as he rounds the corner and runs slap bang into Liz and her cleaning cart. It’s only by luck that he doesn’t end up on the floor.

Feeling foolish he’s harsher than he means to be. “There’s crap all over the stairs, Birdsworth. Make sure it’s gone when I come back.” Liz looks taken aback at his sharpness and he feels a pang of guilt which just adds to his bad mood. “And get this thing out of my way,” he snaps shoving at the cart with a face like thunder.

“Yeah, righto, Mr Jackson …” she says meekly and drags the cart back as he lumbers towards the lift. Geez, she wonders as she stares at his retreating back with suspicious curiosity, what’s crawled up his arse?


	5. Chapter 5

**Sunday**

Vera's awake long before her weekend alarm, but this time it’s just the birds that have woken her and she luxuriates in a sleepy stretch, feeling a hundred times better for an early night and unbroken sleep. Now, if she could just have a few more of them, she thinks, just a few more to bring her up to her usual level of exhaustion, then that would be lovely.

Her rounding belly fills the curve of her palm and she sighs in frustration. She’ll be showing soon and that’s going to lead to some awkward questions; questions she doesn’t know how she’ll answer. The counselling offered by her doctor doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now that time is fast becoming her enemy. It’s scary how quickly the days are slipping by – it doesn’t seem like five minutes since she was watching that second line appear on the pregnancy test – and if she’s not careful, she’s going to find herself six months gone and there will be no escape from Jake. And with that thought, she’s ruined any chance of a lie-in. Smooth move, Bennett, she jeers silently and, with another sigh, she flings back the covers. 

The thought of a proper breakfast this early makes her feel ill so she stays the gnawing in her stomach with some weak black tea and a couple of arrowroot biscuits. She’s spoilt for choice as she flicks idly through her TV recordings, and she slowly nibbles the crisp, frilly edge of a biscuit as she tries to decide between Real Housewives and Love Island. She used to do the nibbling thing as a kid, too. Things like biscuits were a rare treat and she used to try and make them last for as long as humanly possible, letting the crumbs melt on her tongue until there was nothing left but the lingering taste on her lips. This child won’t be stinted the way she was – that’s if she has it of course…

She barely flinches as her phone beeps. The picture Will sends her shows two pencils. Vera studies them for a moment; they don’t unnerve her anymore. Confident in her secret plan she intends to keep them as evidence. ‘Put them in the safe,’ she texts without a second thought.

‘The safe??’

‘Yes’, she replies; then a moment later, ‘Please’.

*****

He can’t stay in the office; it’s too oppressive and he finds himself in the staff room.

“Hi.” Jake's smile falters as a really freaked out looking Will swings his head round to stare at him. “Fuck, mate, what happened to you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

That’s all the proof Will needs and before he knows it, he’s rushing Jake, propelling him backwards until they slam into the wall and he’s jamming his forearm tight against his throat. “I fucken know it’s you,” he hisses savagely.

“What the fuck!” One look in his eyes and Jake can see that Will’s off his face on gear; he can smell it in his sweat.. “Get off me!” he grunts as Will’s fingers dig painfully into his shoulder.

“I know it’s you leaving those fucken pencils on Vera's desk!”

Jake frowns in confusion. “What fucking pencils?”

“Ferguson's.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about. Why would I leave pencils on Vera's desk?”

“Because you want her back.”

“Yeah, I do. I love her. But what have pencils got to do with it? I don’t understand.”

The pressure on his throat relaxes and Jake shoves Will away. His eyebrows draw together was Will recounts the strange story.

“So, is this how it’s going to be from now on, is it? Vera gets ‘threatened’ and you automatically think it’s me? What makes you think I’d work with Ferguson?” Will’s eyes widen and he snorts in disbelief. “OK, I asked for that. But it wasn’t me. She’s dead, mate. All bets are off.” 

“Not for Vera.”

“Yeah, look, I did some bad things; we _all_ did…” Will glances guiltily at the floor and, despite his accusations, Jake feels almost sorry for him. “I thought I could handle it but I’ve been an idiot…”

“You’ve been a total cunt,” says Will flatly.

“OK, yes. I’ve been a total cunt, I admit it. But not anymore, Will. Vera's too special.” He can see that Will doesn’t believe him and a pleading tone enters his voice. “I haven’t put a foot wrong since Channing got the flick. I know she thinks I’m an arsehole but, on my life, Vera's all I care about now.”

“I don’t know, Jake, who else would benefit from scaring Vera in this way?”

If someone’s got it in for Vera then Jake wants to be the one who makes it stop. If Will wasn’t so adamant that she was dead he’d lay money on it being down to Ferguson… More than anything, he wants to call Vera right now and make sure she’s OK, but he knows from bitter experience that she won’t answer and it kills him. “How the fuck would I know?” he snaps angrily. “Righto then, show me. Show me your evidence,” he challenges and he crosses his arms as Will pulls out his phone. Three yellow pencils sit on a black surface. “What does that prove?” he asks with a sneer and pulls out his own phone, grinning smugly as he opens Facebook. “Who’s that in the photo?” he shoves the screen in Will’s face, “Go on, who is it?”

“It’s you.”

“Yeah, damn right it is! And what’s the date there?” He expands the image to show the digital clock on a nearby building. Will reads it out in a monotone.” And what time is it?” Again, Will reads it out. “Yeah, and see where we are?” he stabs at the check-in box, “_Sydney!_” He sneers at Will who stares at him, eyes wide as realisation dawns. “You fucking meat-head, do you honestly think that I’m going to interrupt my holiday to fly all the way here to put some fucking pencils on Vera's desk and then fly all the way back out to Sydney again? Just to frighten her?” All the fight goes out of Will and Jake knows that he’s won. “Mate, you’re fucking delusional.” He twirls his index finger against his temple and laughs in Will’s face before pushing past him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Monday**

Whoever it is is down to one pencil. Vera leaves it where it is as she retrieves the small camera from the box file behind her desk and plugs it into the laptop. The resolution is surprisingly good, even in low light, and she’s holding her breath as she fast forwards, eyes riveted to the screen as if her life depends on it. The office flickers to black and white as night mode kicks in and she hunches closer over the glowing screen. Expecting to see a pair of feet descend from the air-con vent, she watches endless minutes of nothing as the time counter travels across the bottom of the screen. Then the inexplicable happens. The pencils suddenly materialise on her desk! Heat flashes across her skin as she drags the marker back and plays the footage in super-slow motion.

She has to strain her eyes but she sees it. By the door, outlined by a thin, almost shimmering thread like the edge of a raindrop, is the faintest shape of a tall figure. It has to be an optical illusion, she tells herself but it doesn’t stop the sudden dropping feeling in her bladder as it glides across her office and stops by the desk, and she watches in horrified fascination as it reaches out what has to be its hand. The footage stutters for a bare fraction of a second but in that hairsbreadth of time three pencil have appeared. Task completed, the figure seems to twist its head and stare directly down the lens at her before it drifts back towards the door.

Vera slams the laptop shut and shoves herself away from the desk, a silent scream locked painfully in her throat. It’s not possible. What she’s just watched could not have happened… Her skin burns with the pricking of sick fear and she pulls at her tie, trying to relieve the tightness she feels in her chest but it just gets worse and she can hear her breath whistling in her throat as she tries to suck in enough air. Biting pain surges behind her ribs and her sweaty hands clutch feebly at the chair arms but she can’t feel them as the room spins around her and her mind begins to unravel. 

This isn’t the first panic attack she’s had but she’s never experienced anything quite like this; what the fuck had she just seen? A ghost? No! There was no such thing as ghosts… But, but… But it had to be. What else do you call something that materialises through a locked door like that? And not even the best magician could conjure those fucking pencils from thin air! Is it Joan? Is Joan dead? Was she killed here? If so, by who? Stevens? Proctor? Channing? She shudders – was it Jake? Could it have been him? The thoughts force themselves on her, weaving and writhing together in a Gordian Knot of horror until she thinks that her head is going to explode. Numb fingers slide from the chair arms and she leans forward, lacing them together over the top of her head as she presses her forehead into her knees. Fuck, it feels like she’s dying.

“I, I can face anything that c-confronts me,” she hiccoughs feebly into her thighs. “I have f-full confidence in myself. The only person who can defeat me is myself. I can face anything that confronts me…” The mantras help Vera focus on her breathing and by increments, she feels her body slacken, the banging of her wild thoughts fade; she feels the heat of her own breath on her thighs, the fabric of her trousers growing damp, hears the hum of the prison seeping through the walls. She’s still shaking as she sits up, but Vera face is a mask of determination; she’s not going to let this beat her and she glares balefully at the lone yellow pencil.

A quick wash and a change of shirt makes her feel more in control of things again and, steeling herself, Vera opens the laptop and searches the remaining footage. The same thing happens again on the other two nights and she’s reminded of something Joan once told her: once is happenstance, twice is coincidence and thrice is deliberate. What does six times make it? A threat? A vendetta? A reckoning? She’s embarrassed with herself for even entertaining the possibility of the shadowy shape being a ghost but her mind gapes at the enormity of explaining it any other way. She sends the footage to Will.

He calls her. “What am I meant to be looking at?”

“There’s something there, Will. Look harder.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“But you see the pencils appear though, right?” He grunts an affirmative. “Play the clips through slowly and tell me how they fucking get there.” She waits, listening to his breath as he replays the tape.

“Someone’s doctored this,” he says at length. It’s a lie and he knows it. It’s Ferguson's spirit. He may not be able to see her like Vera says she can, but he knows that it’s her.

“They can’t have. No-one knows I set the camera up.”

“Then how do you explain the glitch just before the pencils show up?”

“I can’t Will. But look again just before it happens – can’t you see the fuzzy patch over the desk?” 

She listens to his breathing again and wills him to say he does. “I’m sorry, Vera, I don’t see it.” In a way, he wishes that he did – just to have something to tangible to fear.

“But you’ve _got_ to…!”

There’s a hollowness in her chest, a desperation for him to see what she can. “For fuck’s sake, Will, look at the time stamp – it’s constant, even through the ‘glitches’. No-one’s tampered with it. Something put those pencils on my bloody desk and it wasn’t…” she tails off.

“Wasn’t what?” Vera doesn’t want to say it out loud. She’ll sound like she’s taken leave of her senses. “Wasn’t what, Vera?” he presses.

“…I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Vera takes a deep breath and voices her suspicion. “It wasn’t human.” Will doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything and she imagines him staring at his phone in disbelief as he tries to find a suitable answer. “Will?” she queries tremulously.

His sigh crackles in her ear. “I don’t know what to say, Vera. I, I just don’t know.”

“But you're not dismissing the possibility…?”

There’s a hope in her voice that makes Will sigh again. “Crazy as it sounds, no. But if you’re right about it being a…” He doesn’t want to say the word out loud either and swallows it. “What does it want?”

Oh god, the relief! Just to know that he has his doubts too. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies dourly. “But if it’s… _her_, then I have a pretty good guess.” She ends the call and stares grimly at Joan's last soldier as she tries to quell the hysterical flutter that beats low in her throat. Ghosts! Fuck, they were like two little kids who’d been allowed to see a scary movie. In fact, this whole thing could be the script for a horror film…

There has to be a rational explanation to all of this. There _has _to be. It’s the stress, she tells herself. Whoever did this _knew_ that she had a camera pointed at them – they looked straight at it – they must have done something to the footage. Maybe even swapped out the camera… but no, the serial number matches the one in the picture she took on her phone. She’s struck by a flash of inspiration and opens the video file again, jumping to the end where she herself appears in the top right corner; and she pulls up the access logs for this morning, comparing the times with an increasingly worried frown. Card swipe at 07:53:48, allow thirty seconds or so to walk down the hallway, and there she is, entering her office at 07:54:22. Either this was done by a consummate professional or it’s never been touched at all. She knows what seems more likely and Vera's face crumples in misery.

Tears blur the number pad as she unlocks the safe and she blinks them angrily away to glare at the magical stationery lounging in their knife tube. What good was evidence now when the chief suspect was the Invisible fucking Man?!

She’s like an automaton as she sharpens each one down to nothing. Woodenly she feeds them into the whirring mechanical mouth, pushing in the stump of the last with the point of the next, reaching trancelike for one of her own from the caddy to dispatch the last few centimetres; and dumps the shavings in the toilet, flushing until every last fleck of wood and paint has vanished from sight.

That’s it then. No more pencils. What’s it going to be tomorrow, leather gloves? Vera suppresses an explosive giggle and hiccoughs as her gallows humour fades and the reality of the question starts to impact. What _will _happen tomorrow? The countdown’s up and it’s time for the great reveal. She reckons that short of someone finding and repairing the shattered memory stick, there’s nothing much that she can’t weather. But if it’s not some_one_ but some_thing _doing this… If it _is_ Joan, and she can make real pencils appear from thin air, then what else is she capable of? Vera’s guts churn as she remembers Spiteri and she retches convulsively.


	7. Chapter 7

**Tuesday**

Thankfully her desk is as she left it. She’s too tired to deal with any shit today. The precious few hours of sleep that she’d been permitted last night were filled with nightmares of Ferguson; vivid dreams of both real and imaginary arguments, replays of the worst moments between them; finding herself running from Joan, lost and anxious in a strange town; of being a faceless prisoner in her own jail with Ferguson as both Top Dog and Governor, both bent on punishing her. But by far, the most disturbing of these nightmares was the seduction.

She feels soiled just thinking about it. She feels guilty for responding as she had. Joan had just saved her from the riot and she was pathetically grateful. They were eating take-out at Joan's house and Joan had kissed her. Joan had stripped her naked and then Joan had stripped herself naked, too – she has memories of wet heat and ivory skin and of black hair and red, red lips... They had fucked – fucked like animals. They had fucked in ways Vera hadn’t known existed. And she knows that she rubbed herself to climax because the crushing pleasure had pushed her to the brink of surfacing more than once before she was pulled back down into the darkly sexy embrace of Joan Ferguson.

She winces as she thinks back to the residual arousal that had refused to leave until she’d lowered her hand between her legs and brought herself to a joyless release. She blames her elevated hormones. No-one in their right mind would masturbate about Joan fucking Ferguson.

Exhaustion comes in stages. It begins with plain old tiredness – a few missed hours that disrupt our alertness and make us grouchy. You can cope for a while but when you keep on missing those necessary few hours everything becomes glassy and detached; emotions become exaggerated and brittle, you struggle to find the right word, the right memory… The will to care.

And guilt and fear make poor bedfellows. They wake you up with sharp elbows as Vera knows to her detriment. She hates how she’s been forced to become conniving and cruel. She’s sure that Joan won’t forgive her for the Smith incident – even if she did bring her back from the dead out there in the yard. She knows that she pushed it too far with Joan, revelling in their abrupt switch of power – maybe that’s why she saved her life; as an act of contrition. Sleep since Joan's escape has become a mythical beast. She’s running on empty and right now, it feels as if she’s watching a movie through someone else’s eyes; nothing seems real anymore.

“Andrew, I’m going to the Well-being room. I don’t want to be disturbed for at least an hour.”

He glances at the day planner and smiles conspiratorially. “How about two?”

“Even better,” she says gratefully, and the promise of sleep pulls her fuzzily out of the door and down the corridor.

The room faces south so it’s both cool and dim. It gets dimmer as Vera lowers the blinds, and she groans in relief as she steps out of her heels and sinks into the new carpet. The thick pile massages her ticklish soles in the most soothing way as she pads over to the new sofa and Vera can feel herself growing sleepier with every step. Her phone weighs heavy in her hand and she stares at it with beleaguered distaste. If she didn’t need an alarm she’d turn it off, shut out the world for at least a little while – same with her radio, but that would be a dereliction of her duties. Instead, she thumbs her phone to silent and turns it face down on the table; the radio gets stuffed beneath a cushion on one of the chairs, its volume dialled as far down as it’ll go, and covered (for good measure) by her jacket and tie.

At last she can relax and Vera sinks gratefully into the sofa and curls up on her side. She’s almost too tired as she lies there, feeling her body grow heavy, waiting for the elusive canopy of sleep to fall. And finally, her mind gives up the fight and she’s dozing; caught up in a stream of fantastical, illogical visions that tatter and thin as oblivion slowly claims her.

She’s being served dinner in a small courtyard; there’s a fountain tinkling in the corner and she’s lounging on rich silk cushions as Will (dressed in scarlet and white livery) carries the large, domed platter out from the house and places it in front of her. She’s naked beneath a transparent black sheath dress, cut so low that her nipples slip free and rub maddeningly against the soft fabric, and she gasps – not in embarrassment but at the alluring sensation of liberty.

The low table is suddenly surrounded by figures. There’s no mistaking Farah and Slater or Smith and Warner in their Wentworth blues. There are other women too, crowding behind them; women in various prison uniforms. Harry Smith sits next to a thick-set man with head shaved to a silvery stubble (she recognises him as Nils Jesper); and beside them lounges a lean older man in an immaculate navy suit, his sandy hair greys at the temples and his penetrating blue eyes slide judgementally over her as she stares enquiringly at him. Sitting apart from them, gaze lowered to her lap, is a young Aboriginal woman; she wears the white shift of an innocent and Vera feels a rush of sympathy for the victim of Joan's desires.

With a flourish, Will lifts the lid and invites the guests to admire the dish. Vera recoils with a scream and the cushions slide beneath her scrabbling hands and feet as she pushes herself away in fear. She stares at Will and he just looks at her sadly.

In the centre of the plate, resting on a bed of pencils, is Joan's head. Yellowed skin hangs slackly from her bones, her dark tongue lolls obscenely from between her loose lips, and Vera watches in horrified fascination as a fly crawls fitfully over the dusty white crescent of Joan's left eyeball. Only her hair looks alive. It gleams like obsidian vipers in the strange light as it coils across the collar of yellow spikes. 

Her eye’s caught by a sudden flash of colour by the fountain as Jake appears and whips a cloth from a low bench, and Vera sees that it’s not a bench but a box; a coffin. She feels immense gratitude for the ghoulish distraction as he wheels it closer, a leer of malicious expectation curling his lip, and he drops the raw wooden sides, turning the coffin into a bier and revealing the long, grey uniformed figure within.

Breath dies in Vera's chest. Wreathed in yellow roses, the body has no head! Pale insteps glow above the gleaming black court shoes. Sheathed in soft black leather, long-fingered hands fold at the waist. A golden crown glows richly on its rank bar. It’s Joan.

Slowly, the body sits up and Vera's gripped by a deathly paralysis as it swings its feet to the floor and stands. She can’t tear her eyes away from those familiar gloved hands as they reach for the head and hold it aloft. The line of the incision is ragged and bruised. Joan didn’t die easily. Vera's mind goes somewhere else as Joan connects the two raw stumps and her face flushes ivory and carmine. With the exception of Jianna Riley, the dinner guests look disappointed that their promised meal is no longer on the menu.

_We are as one._

Fully restored, Joan turns her glittering black stare on Vera and advances. Skirt rucked high on her naked thighs, Vera's jammed hard against the wall. She can’t escape. There _is_ no escape. Fear runs through her like a river and she gapes as the governor closes on her. Cold leather slides salaciously up her bare legs, over her exposed breasts, and beneath her armpits; and Vera's lifted into the air like a child. She’s utterly helpless as Joan brings her face to face.

_We are as one._

Joan's beauty is spectacular; spellbinding. Her flowing mane frames the face that has haunted Vera since their very first meeting, and Vera's overcome with the disturbing urge to kiss her. Joan smells of roses, but the rich indulgent scent barely masks the strengthening odour of rot that rises from inside her uniform. Vera gags as Joan's perfect ivory skin splits and peels to reveal the corruption beneath. Her flesh heaves with maggots, twisting her alluring mouth into a grotesque, suppurating smile that exposes the rotten stumps of her teeth and the blackened slug of her tongue.

_We are as one._

And then she’s staring at her mother – her skull gleaming beneath its ragged sheath of putrescence as she mocks her weakness. Vera looks away from the abomination and retches in horror to see a carpet of carrion beetles spilling from beneath the edges of her sheer dress, they teem down her chest and shoulders as they slither from her hair and she screams in futile fury. She’s being shown what she’s known all along; she’s as rotten as Joan is.

*****

She’s woken by the lingering warmth of fingers on her cheek, but consciousness is fleeting and she tumbles back into the seductive embrace of sleep.

She’s woken again by the sensation of fingertips tracing the curve of her ear and she scrubs at the offending tickle, nestling deeper into her pillow as she tries to ignore it.

She wakes to her name and Vera strains her ears in the silence of the room, hearing nothing but the rushing of her own blood.

_We are as one._

The dim light is bent by a narrow, almost shimmering thread that clings to the outline of a tall figure. It stands to attention by her feet, a silhouette so familiar that Vera’s mind wants to crawl away and hide. The line flattens, broadens, spreads until it coats the apparition in a thin layer of iridescence. Vera hears herself moan as it looks at her.

It’s Ferguson.

The Governor’s wraith watches over her as a warm pressure plays seductively on Vera's lips. Heat blooms at her throat and she feels a steady hand caressing her back, magically easing away the tension as it slides silkily over her tight muscles. The pressure on her lips returns and, helplessly hypnotised, she lifts her face, mouth parting as she sighs and twists onto her back. Buttons on her shirt slip open and reveal the golden skin of her torso. Joan remains immobile but Vera feels smooth hands slide inside her shirt and caress her swelling breasts. Pregnancy has made them tender and she gasps as her nipples are stroked and she’s filled with a rippling sensation that soothes her fear and teases her senses.

The invisible fondling continues and Vera feels the resurgence of last night’s lust invade her body. She closes her eyes against its grip, and in the darkness the truth washes over her – this is what she always wanted from Joan but never had the courage to even think about, let alone ask for. She can’t help herself as she arches into the velvety dark sensation and breathes in, flattening her stomach to make more room for the hand that’s easing its way beneath her waistband. She can hear Ferguson breathing hard, as if she’s just run up the stairs, yet there’s a music to it, almost like there’s faint moan lingering at the edges, and Vera joins in harmony as her clit hardens beneath unseen fingers.

_We are as one._

Vera's face glows in ecstasy as she circles her hips and opens herself to the irresistible touch. It’s like she’s being fucked by an angel. The feeling of perfection is overwhelming; every part of her made of shimmering light, of joyous blissfulness, and Vera soars effortlessly towards orgasm. Joan's almost moaning now, her breath coming hard and fast, and Vera forces her eyes open, finding Joan kneeling beside her, her outstretched hands resting on the sofa arms as she stares intently into her soul with her kaleidoscope gaze.

_We are as one._

Her lids flutter shut again as Joan draws another trembling gasp from her, and then the pressure changes, the exquisite tempo falters and Vera opens her eyes in time to see Joan’s features twist and now Vera's staring at Jake. She can smell him – his musk, his stale semen. She can almost taste his noxious aftershave. Like a prison in a riot, Vera's body locks down at the violation. Each and every cell turns to stone as he leers and crows above her, and she sees her future laid out for her: a bitter battle for the child, for her career, her reputation; a life lived on the edge of fight or flight; no peace, no sanctuary; no respite until one of them dies.

Then Joan's face returns and Vera's filled with a debilitating relief as the silken touch resumes. The plush sofa cradles her as the hardness ebbs from her body and she stares in anticipation as the shimmering apparition slides closer. The pleasure between her legs fades and Joan reaches towards her, her ethereal hands skimming over Vera’s chest as she leans in and brushes smooth fingertips along her jaw. The sensation makes Vera squirm with the things it promises but Joan's touch turns chill as she cradles her face in an iron grip and kisses her. It’s beautiful. Fantastical. Joan's tongue is firm and glassy yet supple and tender, and it conjures wanton thoughts into Vera's mind. But it’s cold, so cold… Ice flows down Vera's throat, leaching her strength as Joan begins to take on texture and colour.

_We are as one._

She lies beneath Joan as her life-force streams from her lips and dimly wonders if her time has come. Will she become like Joan? A ghost in her own prison? Vera senses her heart slowing as feeling drains from her cooling flesh but, strangely, she doesn’t tremble with fear at the prospect of death.

Now that she’s whole, Joan's dark head pulls away and her large hand slides to Vera's growing belly; and the tender acceptance in her bitter chocolate eyes makes Vera want to sob. It’s almost as if she can taste the shape of Joan's thoughts, of her regret and her joy and her desire. Joan's gentle touch burns, and warmth flows back into Vera. Joan's gentle touch burns, re-igniting those feelings of bliss; and Vera guides Joan's hot hand beneath her waistband with a look of urgent need.

Joan teases her so skilfully that Vera's almost at the point of tears when she finally enters her with blinding force and swallows Vera's strangled cry with a kiss that leaves her speechless and gasping as her orgasm engulfs her tiny frame.

_We are as one._

She wakes to the first beep of the alarm, face pressing uncomfortably into the angle of the sofa back, one arm tight across her chest, a hand jammed between her thighs. There’s the fleeting sense of being cradled against a warm body before the piercing alarm trills out its irksome cadence, and Vera rolls tiredly onto her back. She eyes the other end of the sofa as if she expects to find some evidence of Joan still hanging in the air but of course, there’s nothing there. There doesn’t need to be when the memory of Joan is branded across her soul.

With a sigh, she levers herself upright and dresses herself for the role of Governor. Her crowns seem to shine brighter and she traces the raised embroidery with tentative fingertips. The thread appears thicker somehow, more lustrous. It’s been a long time since she’s felt like she deserves to wear them and her pinched face creases into a rare smile (the one that she wears for herself and not others) as a feeling of serene confidence settles over her.

_We are as one._

The pencils weren’t a threat – they were a promise.


End file.
